


Christmas 1932

by markaleen



Category: Annie (1982)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, F/M, Friendship/Love, Tributes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28103859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/markaleen/pseuds/markaleen
Summary: Oliver is annoyed by Grace's overzealous preparations for a Christmas banquet. One-shot. (Rest in peace, Ann Reinking)
Relationships: Grace Farrell/Oliver "Daddy" Warbucks
Kudos: 5





	Christmas 1932

**Author's Note:**

> A friend of mine gave me this prompt last week and I was going to write it to post nearer to Christmas, however, with the news of Ann Reinking's passing, I couldn't bear waiting to write and post. I apologize if it's a bit messy - I'm still in a state of shock. Naturally, this story is dedicated to Ann.
> 
> Though it's a sad time in the Annie community, I still want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

"We'll need garland there… perhaps some over the railings as well… and candles in all the windows, of course – are you making note of this all, Drake?"

The butler sighed, frustrated that he was taking time away from his regular duties to aid Miss Farrell's fantasy. "Mentally," was all he answered.

"I must discuss the menu with Mrs. Pugh," Grace said, not really listening to him. "I hope she's not too overwhelmed preparing this banquet on short notice."

"And you're positive you'll get Mr. Warbucks to agree to hosting?"

Grace hugged her clipboard close in an attempt to hide her doubts. "He wasn't opposed, per se. He questioned the motives but that isn't unusual."

"What _are_ the motives, Miss?" Drake questioned.

"Image improvement," she sighed. "What else?"

"I am as loyal to Mr. Warbucks as any of us here, however, that doesn't mean I will pretend he doesn't deserve the bad press when he throws a fit like the one over Thanksgiving."

"It wasn't a fit…" she said in defense.

"Miss Farrell, the man was in such a huff he knocked down half of a marching band."

"He didn't knock them down… his yelling distracted one of them and it was a domino effect. The press brings it on themselves – they provoke him. It's gotten to the point where they do it intentionally so he'll explode."

Bringing a hand to his forehead, wanting desperately to forget the nightmare, Drake said with what, for him, might qualify as a smirk, "Not all the world shares your affection for Mr. Warbucks."

"Drake!"

He shrugged. "You give him a lot of allowances. I'm aware it's not my place, but I do say that a man of his status could stand to better manage his temper."

"He didn't get his fortune by being calm and collected."

"He's lucky to have such an understanding woman at his side."

Wishing the flush in her cheeks would cool, she brushed off the comment the best she could manage. "It's my job."

. . .

For the past two hours, Oliver had been counting the minutes until he'd be home with a glass of brandy in his hand. It'd been a tiring day of dead-end meetings, struggles with the bank, and, as always, dealing with a hoard of camera's following him, every one of them waiting for his solution to the Depression or waiting for him to snap. To his dismay, he walked into a house in disarray, most if not all of the staff members perched on ladders and lugging boxes of ornaments and dragging fir trees around making a mess of needles.

"Miss Farrell!"

Everyone froze, no one daring to take the first breath. They'd all been so preoccupied with the merriment that no one besides Drake had heard the car pull up and doors open.

" _Miss Farrell!_ " he called again to no avail.

"I believe she is in the office, sir," Drake answered as he took Mr. Warbucks' coat.

"At least someone is working! What is all of this?"

"You'll have to speak to Miss Farrell, sir."

Eyes wide in surprise, Oliver questioned, "This is her doing?"

"She told us you were aware of the Christmas preparations, sir. Mind you, I did heed excessiveness."

"I approved a blasted tree!" he shouted. " _One!_ Look at this mess! Did you bring in a bloody forest?"

Drake opened his mouth to speak again but was cut off by Oliver's immediate beckon for Miss Farrell. Soon, he stood back watching his master charge upstairs, hoping for his friend's sake he wasn't too hard on her.

It was the fourth call Grace finally heard. Judging by his tone, she knew she'd missed some number of them and stood from her seat at the desk. She hadn't the chance to move toward the door when Oliver came barging through.

"What is this nonsense with Christmas decorations, Miss Farrell?"

Unphased, Grace answered, "I figured the house should look its best for the holidays, Mr. Warbucks. When the guests arrive—"

"Guests?"

"The dinner party. Don't you remember?"

He couldn't, but that didn't matter. "Why would I agree to a party? You know I dread these occasions. No connections are going to be made until after the new year. It's all charity in December. I give my part all year without having some sad sap tell me there's children whom Santa won't be visiting and a family without a turkey or ham or some animal carcass on their table."

Moving behind his desk, he continued his rant. "I'll tell you, I don't remember one damn visit from 'Santa Claus'. When you're poor there's no room for fiction. My parents knew better than to disillusion us kids. The Depression doesn't change that. Kids who always had toys to open Christmas morning have learned that the only way to get what you want is to work for it. Even then it's not always given. People are foolish. They think because it's December that it's time for goodwill and cheer. Come January they're the same miserable sods they were in November."

Disheartened, it took Grace a moment to phrase a response. "Be that as it may, a gathering like this is necessary if you want Thanksgiving to blow over."

"Another disastrous PR attempt. What makes you think this time it will be different? I don't have time for these games. Let the papers and reels say what they will."

Cautiously retaking her seat, she said, "As someone with the means to give back, people want to see it. Everyone in this house knows of your contributions but so long as you want to maintain a positive role in getting America back on its feet, the public needs to see the gentler side of you. President Roosevelt said on the phone the other—"

"I don't give a damn what Roosevelt said!"

Grace nodded. "Regardless, it's too late to cancel now."

"It will backfire one way or another," Oliver said, picking up the evening paper. "Might as well quit while's we're ahead."

"It's a dinner with associates and some influential people. The worst you'll have to sit through is singing a few Christmas carols."

"Blast," he grumbled.

"You'll take a few pictures – try to smile in at least a couple – make a speech which I will have prepared, eat, and call it a night."

"And you suspect I'll get the public's adoration for throwing an affair none of them have a hope of attending?"

"The thought did cross my mind, sir… I am figuring out a way to emphasize the contributions being made in the preparations. The trees, wreaths, and bouquets come from a small farm upstate, family-owned, and struggling to maintain their property. The food is coming as local as possible, though I couldn't tell you all the details on that front at the moment. Most of the ornaments come from smaller shops as well as trinket gifts for the guests. And finally, whatever food is leftover will be prepared for one or two of the soup kitchens."

Oliver didn't respond, only twisted his lips as he scanned an article.

Grace continued. "People love to live vicariously through people like you. Like a picture star, almost, only there are fewer politics with them."

A sarcastic laugh erupted. "Pictures," he mocked. "Now there's a waste of money. I'll have death threats mailed to me for this party but they'll scrape together their last few cents to see Cagney and Davis."

Biting her tongue on this issue, she made one last attempt. "I think you should go through with it, Mr. Warbucks. For as long as I've worked for you you've hardly acknowledged the holiday. Any holiday, really, but especially Christmas. Perhaps you are right about it being a desperate attempt to ignore the dreariness in the world right now, but what's the alternative? Christmas is a time for good memories."

"Not always, Miss Farrell," Oliver mumbled.

Sensing a note of sadness in his voice with eyes to match, she backed off, refraining from further questioning despite a nagging curiosity. She went back to work, taking a stack of papers over to one of the typewriters for edits and retyping. Had she looked up, she would have seen him staring, a glimmer of apology in his eyes. Of course, he'd never admit to it. Just because Grace didn't know all of his reasons for not celebrating didn't mean he was wrong. Instead, he put forth his own version of an apology.

"We'll have the party."

Looking up from the typewriter, she said, "I beg your pardon?"

"We'll have the party, Miss Farrell."

"And the decorations?"

Oliver grumbled. "They can stay."

Standing, though she didn't dare to cross the room again, Grace said, "I got a little bit carried away."

"A little?"

"A lot."

Try as he may, he couldn't suppress a faint chuckle. It didn't go unnoticed by Grace, who rose her head and beamed. She didn't want to risk the delicate air by saying any more, nor did she want to risk spoiling the end of her day by sticking around the office and allowing another annoyance to change his tone again.

"Then I'll go finalize the menu and tie up some loose ends so we can put in a full day here tomorrow… if that's all right, sir? Do you need me for dictation?"

The answer was yes, however, he answered, "No, that'll be fine."

"Thank you, sir!"

She was almost out of the office when Oliver called after her. "Miss Farrell?"

"Yes, sir?" she turned around.

"No more trees. I beg of you."

"Noted… Goodnight, Mr. Warbucks."

"Goodnight, Miss Farrell."

He hadn't realized he had watched her leave until the phone rang and pulled him out of his trance. Begrudgingly he answered, in the back of his mind wondering what kind of Christmas present might be appropriate to give to an overly sentimental secretary.


End file.
